


The Beauty in Deadly Things

by JenevaJensen



Series: The Beauty in Deadly Things [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AryaxGendry Week, Canon Compliant, Commitment, F/M, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Gendrya - Freeform, Goodbye Sex, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Post - Game of Thrones (TV), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reconciliation Sex, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 09:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenevaJensen/pseuds/JenevaJensen
Summary: Gendry knows that he messed up asking Arya to marry him in 8.04. After the council in King's Landing will his his decision to stowaway on her ship lead to their reconciliation or demise?





	The Beauty in Deadly Things

He hadn’t seen in her in months. Not since she’d dashed his drunken, newborn hopes in the kindest way possible with softness in her eyes and steel in her words. He’d been certain, even in his darkest moments since that night, that she loved him. That if he hadn’t been such a fool as to ask for marriage, and call her his lady, things might have gone differently. As it was, he’d arrived in King’s Landing just the night before the peacemaking and done his best to walk into this conclave with every semblance of a true lord. His new Lord’s clothes made him sit stiffly in his seat; the leather hadn’t been broken in yet. He’d left Winterfell directly following the night she’d refused him and spent the past several moons stumbling through his new role at Storm’s End. He’d done alright so far, he considered. Managing a holdfast was not so very different in some ways from running a forge—you had to ensure that there were enough supplies and that your people were employed in productive ways. The ongoing wars made armoring and steelcraft a necessity and he’d determined that his best course of action would be to ensure that this holding of his claimed some specialty for itself. He’d fallen to work expanding and improving the scope of his craftsmen and smithing facilities. The almost immediate destruction of King’s Landing proved his decision wise and as refugees from the charred rubble started appearing at the gates to Storm’s End he’d decreed that skilled craftsmen and women should be given first priority for resettlement. The subtleties of governing and lording were still lost on him, but his directness and obvious practical knowledge of what he was about in this specific area hadn’t alienated anyone too badly…yet, he thought. He had a vague hope that Ser Davos might return to the Stormlands with him after this gathering. Then he might not feel, so completely, at sea.

The atmosphere in the Dragonpit was fraught. Many of these new lords and ladies knew one another but many again were completely untried. What petty madness might lie hidden inside any of them? There was some minor comfort in not being the only inexperienced lordling in The Pit. Prince Quentyn of Dorne sat alongside Robin Arryn on his first venture outside The Vale. But the Stark siblings dominated the gathering. How could they not? They had marched south with an army of Northmen to demand Jon’s release: this was their meeting—though Lord Tyrion was doing all the talking.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from casting themselves towards her. She looked…good. Serious and reserved, fit and ferocious. When she threatened to cut Yara Greyjoy’s throat, he had a hard time keeping his countenance—he’d bitten his cheek to rein in the smirk that threatened to break through. Such cold-blooded wickedness contained in such a tiny person! Arya had made eye contact with him briefly when she’d entered the arena, but in the same impersonal way that she did with each of the other lords—as though gauging any potential threat. She’d raised her walls again completely. He hadn’t expected that. And yet he had. She was so certain of herself. Certain about who she was and who she was not. Always had been. He’d only ever been certain of three things: he was skilled with a hammer, life had more for him than he was born with, and he loved Arya Stark.

The spunky child who had saved him with a quick lie, and a bargain with a Faceless Man. Who had once offered to be his family, and stamped her foot and told off the Red Woman when he was sold away, had suddenly appeared in front of him a woman demanding a peerless weapon, and the only weapon he’d wanted to forge for her was himself. The need he’d felt for her had been unexpected, but familiar once it kindled. And then they’d had that all too short Long Night together and it had become blazingly clear. He’d been alone in the world and a simple man all his life. Until her. His hasty words had broken them, but he would mend it: that’s what blacksmiths do. After all, they value the artistry of beautiful, deadly things. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The door to her cabin was ahead of him. He brushed a hand over his leather jerkin doing his best to smooth away any lingering dust or detritus from the three days he’d spent squirreled away in the hold before knocking.

“Yes?” she inquired. 

He pulled the latch on the door and it swung inwards. She glanced up, her eyes widening as they made contact with his. For the first time since he’d decided on this course, a cold uncertainty swept from his heart to his toes.

Fast as a roiling storm and slow as a summer sunrise, it seemed, Arya rose from her desk; her chair scraping quietly along the floorboards. “Did you wait three nights like you said three women,” she asked coolly, “because you thought it was the right amount?”

“I--,” he began.

“Far enough out of King’s Landing,” she interrupted, “that I wouldn’t turn the ship around, but near enough that I could toss you into a dinghy and you could row ashore to Dorne?” 

His broad shoulders sagged and his mouth opened and closed briefly. This wasn’t how he’d hoped this encounter would begin. Nevertheless, he held her stare and retorted, “As you wish, milady. It’s your ship: it’s your decision.” The question she’d posed him suddenly registered, “Wait,” he straightened, “You’ve known I was aboard? For three days?”

Her eyes flashed, a hint of mischief sparking briefly, “You thought I didn’t?”

“And you cast-off anyway?” he enquired. It gave him hope and it was infuriating. She was infuriating. Always needling him. 

With a studied nonchalance, Arya circled him, replying, “I wasn’t supposed to know you were on board. Why not ask to see me before we sailed? Why reveal yourself now unless you’ve changed your mind? Why not wait until we were so far out at sea that I wouldn’t have a choice but to keep you?”

It took a moment for Gendry to process what she was implying. When he did, he didn’t like it. His features darkened, and he countered, “When have I ever, all these years, not upheld your choices? I may not have liked them, or agreed with them, but name one time I scuppered them.”

“You kept me from murdering The Hound.”

Gendry scoffed, “And you’re telling me you regret—now--that I did that?”

A tolling silence cast itself about the cabin. “Anything else?” he prodded into the stillness. When she didn’t respond Gendry continued, “Are you frosty because I’m here or because I’m here now? If it’s because I’m here at all, you might as well throw me into the sea and have done, milady!”

“Is that what you want, _my lord_?” She’d curled her highborn pronunciation into a taunt. It made his heart stutter. He had teased her the way he always had done. He ought to have known better. Especially for this first conversation since that night. Maybe they were both still a bit…raw. Even after the moons spent apart. He squared his shoulders. If she wanted to fight it out, he could fight. 

He strode to the desk and captured the hand she’d balanced lightly upon the maps between both of his. He half-expected her to snatch it away—she was a blizzard about to gust—but she didn’t. Instead, he answered, sincerely, “What I _don’t_ want is you thinking that I’m something else you have to put behind you and sail away from.”

She was silent. Her eyes focused on their hands; her face impassive. His thumb was stroking small circles onto the skin at her wrist. He hadn’t realized he was doing that. He hadn’t meant to do it. He needed to pull her attention back to his words—not distract her body with his touch. He was still reasonably certain he held that power, at the very least. She’d kissed him twice refusing him. One kiss could mean goodbye; but the second kiss clutched at an impending regret. They needed to have this out. Firming his stance, he let go of her hand, raising both of his to cradle her face, compelling her stormy eyes towards his. “You can put me off this ship now with a word and never see me again. That is your right and I’ll respect it. If that night between us was desire alone—desire that was quenched for you like a hot iron in water--tell me plain so I can get rowing back to shore.” 

His words were apt. She could see him clearly in her mind’s eye--surrounded by clouds of hissing vapor--at Harrenhal and Winterfell. She wanted to shake herself away from his hands, but the warmth—in his eyes, in his strong, rough hands, in his voice--he was always _so warm_. 

And she was a ‘cold little bitch.’ Or she had been. Being No One and pursuing vengeance had frozen her solid: made her capable of shattering the Night King into an infinity of tiny shards. Maybe that Arya Stark had shattered that night too. Or, at least, begun to melt.

> _“You know that boy was leaving the hall to find you when the Dragon Queen raised him to a lord?” Sandor had said to her on the road to King’s Landing._  
_“So?” she’d bitten in reply._  
_“He’d very little drink in him and could hardly pay attention to his supper.”_  
_“Am I supposed to find this interesting?”_  
_“Did he find you? After?”_  
_“None of your business, you miserable old shit.”_  
_“So he did, then.”_

Arya had kicked her horse into a trot and rode ahead. Clegane let the subject drop for the remainder of their journey. But he’d helped her choose survival over retribution: made her choose not to be him. She’d felt grateful for the chance. Maybe her flight through the fires of King’s Landing had seared her so completely she’d thawed through. Maybe she could finally be…something else now? She shook herself away from Gendry, retreating behind her chair where she stood, hands clasped behind her. Was her coldness a choice, a habit, a defense? Did she even know? She glanced back up at his stubborn figure and steady eyes. He was waiting for her reply.

“It wasn’t desire alone,” she whispered, her body loosening with the admission, “I couldn’t fight Death if I was dead myself. I had to know something else.”

“And did you? Know something else? With me? That night?” he asked softly, taking tentative steps towards her with each question.

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Thank all the gods,” he murmured, reaching out a hand to brush a wisp of escaping hair behind her ear. She’d involuntarily nestled her cheek into his palm as he’d done so. That was reassuring. But as Arya realized she’d done it, she checked herself and stepped backwards, trying to put some distance between them. Gendry caught her arm as she turned, preventing her retreat and knocking the chair into the table with a clunk. 

“Why is this so hard for you? Why do you keep running away? Why did you sail knowing I was aboard if you didn’t want to hear me out?”

“I’m not running away! You had a chance to say…whatever it is you feel needs saying that night at Winterfell. But you didn’t. You left. You took up the mantle the Dragon Queen gave you.”

Gendry blew out a frustrated breath. “I was drunk and disappointed and struck dumb. Later, I was hungover and angry and sad. And you were just…gone. I’m not like you: I have to hammer an idea around before I can see how best to work it.”

“You can’t work me! I’m not metal.”

“Seven hells, Arya! I didn’t say work _you_, I said work _it_. _Life_. See how to make life work for both of us. You know death. You told me as much. You said it has many faces. But life has many faces too and I’m not certain you know life. You…I…we…had so little of it before everything went sideways. But the only thing that has ever made any of it make any sense to me is you.”

“You said that before,” she said, turning back to him, “But how can I make sense to you when you don’t hear what I tell you?”

“I hear you.”

“You asked me to marry you!”

“And that was a mistake,” he owned, “One I wouldn’t have made if I hadn’t just been bashed upside the head with promotions and legitimization. I was seeing stars that night. Every ballad every sung seemed suddenly possible.” 

“I’m no maiden in a song,” she snapped.

Gendry found a sly grin tugging at the side of his mouth and he couldn’t help but tease, “No, you’re no maiden. At least, you weren’t by then.” Catching the look that flashed into her eyes and the dangerous arch of her brow, he took a hasty step backwards before she could shove him, his hands raised, adding, “You aren’t a song either: you’re a weapon. Wicked sharp; finely honed; balanced perfect.”

He’d surprised her with the analogy. “And you think you can wield me? Or refashion me? Or display me?” she asked, disdainfully, “I’m not yours to own, Gendry.”

He groaned, “By all the gods, Arya! Of course not. If anything, I’d like to be the sheath at your side holding you at rest.”

Incredulity suffused her grey eyes at the picture he’d drawn. It flattered her. It fit him. Maybe, just maybe, he could understand, after all. “I’m not ready to rest. I need to know what’s out there,” she insisted.

He gazed down at her, months of exhaustion and exasperation tinging his expression and voice, “If you think that a year, or two, or ten will make me forget what I feel for you, Arya Stark, you’re wrong. Go away if you have to—for some reason bigger than me—for yourself. We already know what’s between us withstands years and distance. But come back. And come back to me. Because I love you.”

“You didn’t stowaway to come with me, then?” she clarified.

“No. Before gods and men and Daenerys changed my fortune that night I would have. I won’t pretend that I don’t have pride in who I’ve got the chance to be now. Just because you’ve never wanted it, doesn’t mean that I don’t. I can make people’s lives better now than they were before. Or, at least, I want to try.”

Arya nodded, seeming to appreciate this explanation. 

“Bran is remaking the world. The Kingdoms are rebuilding. It’s not a replica of what came before. We can make choices that make it better. You asked me to be your family once. I don’t think you liked the answer I gave you then when you wanted me to serve Robb and I told you I wouldn’t serve again. But…when I call you ‘milady’, Arya, I’m not asking you to be something you’re not. For me…” he took a moment to pull his words together properly, “Calling you ‘milady’ means I’m still willing to serve you: I love you.” 

Arya thought on his words, peering out the cabin’s aft-window at the wake. After what felt to Gendry like a hundred-year-winter, she mused aloud, “In a week’s time, we take on our last supplies in Oldtown. Our final port. Until then…” she trailed off, turning away from the window to challenge him with her eyes. 

He held his breath. Despite the heat coursing through him at the intensity of her gaze, he held firm, refusing to surrender until he had a clearer answer. “Are you giving yourself the week to decide?”

“A week to work out the details,” she replied, sauntering towards him, a saucy glint in her eyes, “But I like your definition of service,” she quirked an eyebrow, “And your…image…of rest.”

“How should we put in the time, then?” Gendry asked, his attempt at nonchalance failing noticeably as she arrived in front of him and traced her palms lightly up his chest. Catching her hands in his own, he pressed his lips to her inner wrists. “Are you certain, Arya?” he rasped, his eyes darkening as he bent his forehead to hers, “I can’t… I don’t… want _this_ again if you’re not. I mean I _want_ it, but...”

Looking him dead in the eye, she confirmed, “Certain as winter snows, and fury burns,” before launching herself into his arms. She wound her legs tightly around his waist, kissing him until they were both breathless. He backed her into a wall of the cabin, their hands somewhat free now to pull eagerly at each other’s clothes, dropping them heedlessly. Both were giddy with the scent and feel of the other as, by turns, they found themselves laughing against the other’s enthusiastic lips. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and the sensation of her fingers against his scalp sent a shiver through him. He pressed tighter against her. He could feel himself hardening as her hips shifted against his with the rocking of the ship. It was evident, despite their lower clothing, that she could feel him as well. Smiling against his mouth, she quickly unfastened her own belt and tossed it aside before working the fastenings on his. As her hand made its way into his breeches, Arya murmured, “I think…perhaps…” 

Gendry groaned as she took him in her hand. 

Breathing into his ear, she quipped, “_I_ should be the sheath for this weapon.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“What was that you said before about three women?” he asked, his right-hand stroking idly through her hair as her head lay upon his chest. They had somehow, eventually, found the cabin’s bed.

Turning her face upwards towards his, she took a moment to bite at his chest lightly before answering, “You lied.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. A Faceless Man always knows when someone is lying. You lied about the Red Woman and you lied about the girls.” He had shifted beneath her as though to raise himself into a sitting position. She placed a calming hand on his chest, preventing him. “It’s alright. I knew it then and I know it now. It wouldn’t have stopped me having you that night. The only thing that could was you not wanting to. I don’t know exactly why you lied…” she quirked a questioning eyebrow at him belying her next words, “but it doesn’t matter. Not now.” She lay her cheek back on his chest, her fingers tracing swirls onto the skin of his stomach.

“If you’re still thinking about it, especially now, it matters,” Gendry said, the arm that was cradling her, pulling her closer against him. She could feel his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek as he brushed a kiss against the top of her head. “What made you ask, anyway? Was there a right answer?”

“No. I don’t think there was a right answer.” She considered his question, her brow furrowing, “If you’d said twenty, I would have been surprised. If you’d said none, I would have been cross and disappointed that you weren’t truthful—and that neither of us knew what we were doing.” She smirked up at him, acknowledging, “You knew what you were doing.”

His ears flushed red. That was a compliment. Before the praise could go to his head, she pointedly--but without malice--redirected the conversation: “The Red Woman.” 

“I didn’t lie…exactly. I suppose some of this,” he gestured to their entwined bodies, “is a matter of definition.” Arya’s upraised brow and the way her nails suddenly nipped against his side told him he’d better get much clearer. “She would make four,” he conceded quickly, “If by ‘been with’ you meant ‘had my cock briefly inside.’” He glanced down and Arya gave a small nod. He continued, “But I wasn’t with her…not like…this.” What he didn’t feel he could put into clear words (and didn’t even want to attempt to explain if he ever found them) was that there were some difficult…similarities. Both women were powerful and deadly. Both had taken charge of him--commanding--and he’d been all too willing to serve. But where the Red Witch used artful sorcery and bodily promises that pleasure could fend-off the darkness—keep Death at bay; Arya’s candid bravado seduced him with the opposite. Her boldness had stripped away any artifice between them, demanded his participation, and embraced the Death that was coming. One had bound, mistreated and stolen from him: confounded his lust. The other had unlocked a cavern of longing, built on their shared history, fathoms deep and oceans wide. 

“And the other girls?” Arya asked, bringing his attention back to the question at hand.

Neither powerful, nor deadly. “Don’t compare well with you either,” he replied, tugging her hair lightly and giving the top of her head a hearty kiss. 

Arya chuckled, the feel of her laughter against him sending another thrill through his entire body. He rolled her onto her back and kissed the laughter thoroughly from her lips. When she was breathless beneath him, he trailed kisses lower: down her neck, between her breasts and over the scars crisscrossing her stomach. One hand kneading her breast gently, his head dipped lower. Her legs widened to allow him access. He paused to make eye contact as he arrived at his destination. The hitch in her breath and the way her eyelids fluttered as his lips and tongue began to devour her made him smile briefly against her, his stubble adding an erotic friction to his movements. She moved against him, grinding herself against his tongue, his chin, his nose, his fingers. Looping his arms under her legs and splaying his hands across her belly to hold her steady, he picked up the pace. He could feel her muscles quivering. She was almost there. He wanted to watch her face. It was the most delicious feeling in the world to see her emotions scatter themselves freely over the face she usually held tightly in check. She was moaning his name now; both of her hands twisting into his close-shorn hair, holding him against her. With a lunge and swirl of his tongue she broke apart beneath him with a keening cry and gush that he lapped from her like a man dying of thirst in the Red Waste. As her breathing slowed, she languidly reached a hand down to wipe the remnants of her arousal from his lips, beard, and chin. He captured her thumb between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth and tonguing it clean before placing a kiss on her palm. “Which of them taught you that?” she exhaled, her breath still shallow, “I’d like to send her my thanks.” 

Maneuvering himself back up the bed to lounge beside her, Gendry looked sheepish, “The bards.”* At her startled look, he elaborated, “You’re the only one I’ve tried that with. I’d understood it to be something a girl would like.”

“A girl did like it,” Arya smiled, arching herself like a cat and stretching, “Specifically, this girl.” A thought occurred to her and she looked back at him, “What do I taste like?”

A greedy grin spread itself across Gendry’s face, “Honey,” he growled, “Want to taste?” Pulling her towards him, his mouth crashed against hers. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“So…” she began several hours later, “Those other girls…”

“Arya. You can’t still think they matter at all.”

“Not to us. Not as we are…but…”

“But what?”

She took a deep breath. “Is there any chance you could have gotten a child on any of them…or all?”

His mouth gaped like a fish out of water. The idea had obviously never occurred to him. She could see his thoughts careening behind his eyes. “Men,” Arya muttered to herself, fondly exasperated. Taking pity on him, she lightly combed her fingers across his stubbled chin and jaw until the storm of his thoughts subsided and his eyes focused on hers. She had his attention again. She kissed him softly and remarked, “If you had, it would be alright. It might be better than alright. It wouldn’t make you into your father. It would make you a father. It would mean, Lord Baratheon, that you had an heir.”

He pulled away from her, gazing at her in shock. She saw his next thought land like an anvil. He was eyeing her stomach. 

“Do you think there’s any chance…?” he asked, reaching over to trace with reverent fingers the scars crisscrossing her abdomen.

“I wouldn’t think so,” she replied carelessly, reaching for the waterskin hanging over the bedpost, “But I don’t know. I never intended to be a mother. Until I wanted you, I’d never wanted anyone. None of the rest of it seemed important to me. It’s still not.” She looked at him half-apologetically as she drank.

“Did you bring any Moon Tea with you?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Why would I?”

“You may not have been intending to engage in this,” he said, gesturing to their still-entwined legs and rumpled bedding, “But there are other women on your ship, Arya. Some of them might have come prepared. If not, don’t leave port at Oldtown without getting some. A voyage of exploration is no place for a baby.”

Her face lit up. She replaced the waterskin and lifted his arm to snuggle close against him. He understood. He understood her. But he had obligations and responsibilities now too; she wanted to support him. “You should search for them,” she urged, “Find out if…”

“If they exist…if they’re not dead…they’d be bastards.”

“No more than you.” 

“And it wouldn’t bother you…?”

She thought on that for a few moments before pulling both his arms snuggly around her, and wrapping her arms tightly around his, holding his elbows. She felt warm and secure for the first time in years. She turned her face upwards and kissed his throat tenderly. “I think it would bother me if you resumed bedding their mothers.” His body heaved behind her and she found herself suddenly flat on her back with her hands pinned above her head. He’d moved so fast and she hadn’t anticipated it. She liked it. His Baratheon fury, however, had ignited like wildfire. “You think that I’d dishonour everything between us? Now? After this?” his voice a suppressed roar of righteous anger.

“I’ll be gone a long time,” she said softly, tilting her hips beneath him, finding his strength and sudden dominance enticing. It reminded her of how her nether-regions had clenched when he’d driven that dragonglass axe into the table at Winterfell. They clenched again now, and she could feel the warmth of her arousal pooling between her thighs. “And maybe there isn’t already a child. Maybe you want heirs more than you think you do.” Now she was intentionally goading him: with her tone, her eyes, her hips.

Gendry allowed all the strength he had to ground itself between his belly and his hands, pressing her firmly beneath him, holding her motionless against the bed. “If you ever want to have my child, I’ll be thrilled,” he said, his eyes drilling into hers, “but if you never do, and if there aren’t any now, there will never be any.” He sealed his pledge with his lips, determination emanating from him with such force that it made her squirm beneath him. He could feel himself hardening. “Besides,” he continued roguishly, kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose before releasing her and rolling to prop himself beside her on one elbow, “I don’t think you know this about yourself, but you’re wicked jealous, milady. I wouldn’t dare take the risk--for the other lady’s sake as much as my own.” He grinned.

She shoved him and then he was on his back with her astride him, raking her nails across his chest as she impaled herself upon him. It was an angrier version of their first night together. She marked him with her nails and her teeth, desperately moving against him. He pulled himself up against her, holding her stuttering hips firmly against his, sucking her breasts and neck, leaving her skin bruised from his lips and red from his beard, all reverence from that night lost in mutual desperation. _‘Want no one but me; need no one but you,’_ seemed to be the refrain of their bodies as they strove against each other, Arya coming apart repeatedly as she rode him, arching against him each time she cried out her pleasure and scoring his back and shoulders with her nails until at last, shaking uncontrollably, she collapsed against him. He moaned her name, pulled her tightly against him and filled her quivering insides. He fell asleep still buried deep inside her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The ship’s bell rang. They were approaching the last Westerosi port at Oldtown. Arya felt Gendry yawn and stretch widely behind her in their berth. She was lying on his right arm. He wiggled his fingers to awaken his circulation and then, as he shifted closer pulling her into an embrace, that same hand rose to gently cup and knead her breast. She placed her own over his, encouraging. He nuzzled his bearded jaw into her neck sending pleasant shivers down her spine. She smiled. There was time enough before they made port. 

His left fingers lightly stroked her side, shifting lower, playing across her navel and stomach before dropping lower still to tug and pet her curls. “This is a nice way to wake up,” she murmured into his lips turning her head towards him and kissing him tenderly.

“Mmmh, hmmh,” was all the rumbling answer she received as he deepened their kiss.

He pulled her left-leg up and back over his. Winding that leg around his allowed his fingers better access to the heat at her center. And not just his fingers. The gentle rocking of the ship aided the motion of his hips against her backside. She felt his cock slip between her legs, his smooth hardness caressing her. After what seemed like an age of tantalizing torture, she gasped against Gendry’s mouth as his hips shifted slightly and he began to her enter her slowly. So slowly it made her heart ache and brought tears to her eyes. He was going to make her feel every minor imprint his body could mark upon hers. His left fingers strummed against her, his right fingers tweaking her nipples, as he allowed the rocking of the ship to dictate the speed of his entry until—at long last—he was fully sheathed inside her. She moved against him, her one arm reaching back to hold his hip tight against hers--to keep him as close as she could for as long as she could. Her other hand traced patterns through his hair, encouraging him to worship that place on her neck that sent waves of heat spiraling downwards to her core. They moved together languorously, their bodies slick with sweat, not wanting to rush through this time that would be the last they could share for…years, perhaps…ever. At last, when both were gasping each other’s breath, trembling feverishly with the effort of prolonging the inevitable, their bodies taut and straining against each other, they gazed into one another’s eyes and came apart together. Arya’s completion marked by a soundless shuddering cry; Gendry’s an extended groan of fulfillment. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gendry helped her fasten her belt. She adjusted the fit of his coat. They smiled at each other. She held his hands. The sweetness she allowed to suffuse her face was unlike anything he’d imagined could be etched there. “You’re beautiful,” he said, his adoration clear, “I love you.”

“I love you too, idiot,” she grinned, reaching up to share one last intimate kiss before leaving the cabin. They held hands through the passageway. When they at last had to let go of each other, Gendry gave her hand a tight squeeze before taking a step away and opening the door to the deck. 

Everything between them was formal from that moment on. Arya went about directing her crew to take on the last of the provisions they would need for the voyage. Gendry asked permission to leave the ship. Arya swallowed a chuckle at the expression on the Captain’s face as he side-eyed her before granting it. She followed him down the gangway. A young cabin boy appeared in front of them. Bobbing his head, first to her, then to Lord Baratheon, the lad handed him a pouch and disappeared up the ramp to the ship. Arya looked at Gendry quizzically. “Here,” he said, passing the pouch to her, “I wanted to be certain you wouldn’t forget. Can’t have you cursing me from the high seas nine moons from now.” He grinned. Then sobered, “I want you to want to come back.”

“I do. I will,” she said, taking the pouch and stowing it carefully in the inner-folds of her cloak. “I promise.” They clasped arms as lords agreeing an alliance, their plans and promises of the last week steady in their eyes. They parted. She watched him stride away, purposefully. He would return to the Stormlands, pursuing his own missions. Someday she would return, and they would find safe harbour in each other again.

**Author's Note:**

> There is more coming soon. Hope you enjoy this first installment. This version of these two has been making me happy for the past 3 months.
> 
> Notes:  
1) I've pulled the name Quentyn for the Prince of Dorne from ASOIAF.  
2) *Obviously, Gendry is making reference here to that classic Westerosi tune "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" (of which I own nothing):  
_"She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_  
_But he licked the honey from her hair._  
_Her hair! Her hair!_  
_He licked the honey from her hair!_  
_Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!_  
_My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!_  
_And off they went, from here to there,_  
_The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair."_


End file.
